


Crazy

by ohhsnap



Category: The Outsiders (1983), The Outsiders - S. E. Hinton
Genre: M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:48:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28307763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohhsnap/pseuds/ohhsnap
Summary: I wish it could’ve stayed that way, me thinkin' I was nuts and no one else knowing. But sooner or later, the crazy ones always seem to confess.
Relationships: Johnny Cade/Dallas Winston
Comments: 3
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Revamping this from its original posting on fanfiction.net in 2005. Let’s see what happens this time.

It's like one of those horror movies where you can't do much but cover your eyes and hope the main character doesn't open the door, because whatever's behind it is bad news. You can't help but peek through your fingers and you always end up startled even though you knew something would jump out at you from the screen. It's why you watch the movie in the first place.

That's kind of what it's like to be in love with Dallas Winston.

Can I call it love? It ain’t a very tough word, I don’t think, but I'm sure Ponyboy would disagree. He's always thinking about deep stuff like that. He'd probably say something like being in love makes you strong or brave. That's just the way he is, I guess. As for me, I think it makes you even more vulnerable than you are without it. It's all or nothin’ and that's real scary, at least to me. Feels like more trouble than it’s worth, don’t it?

I knew I shouldn't have let it happen, anyway. It was a stupid move to make, but I’m always making stupid moves, so I don't know why I was so surprised when I figured it out. It was all’ve a sudden, too: I woke up one morning, sat up, and said it out loud to myself. It sounded right, even though it was wrong. I'm not too good at right and wrong, though. I like what feels good and makes everyone else happy. Shoot, sometimes I don't blame my old man when he hits me. If it makes him feel better, then maybe it's all right.

It felt right to hide it. Only an idiot goes around shouting that kind of thing from the rooftops, y’know? I figured Dally would probably stomp my ass and never talk to me again if I ever said anything. Heck, if he can get mad enough to knock some kid's teeth out just for asking him to move over at the general store counter, I didn’t want to think about what he'd do if I ever told him I like the way he puts his arm around my shoulders when he’s too drunk to find his way back to Buck’s by himself. Or how much I hated his ex-girlfriend and the way she couldn’t keep her greedy hands off him whenever they’d go to the drive-in with me and Pony because, well, fuck—why her instead of me? I never pictured that conversation goin’ any which way but bad.

It's just that he's so strong, and I'm… not. He's the kind of guy who can talk big and actually back it up, not like Two-Bit or Curly Shepard. Even if you can't always count on him to be around when you need him, he's got your back if he happens to show up. Dally's different from Ponyboy or Steve. He ain't moviestar good-looking like Pony's brother Soda, and he ain't real responsible like their older brother Darry, but he’s got a good heart under all that anger. I know; I’ve seen it before, whether he’d cop to it or not. He ain’t afraid of much, and even when he’s scared he don’t show it. I just wish I could be more like him instead of who I really am: poor ol' Johnnycake who can't sleep in his own bed most nights because his dad can't stop smackin' him around long enough for his head to hit the pillow.

I figured maybe I was just crazy. I've been called lots of things before, but never crazy, so it kinda made sense. I wish it could’ve stayed that way, me thinkin' I was nuts and no one else knowing. But sooner or later, the crazy ones always seem to confess.


	2. Chapter 2

Don't get me wrong or nothin', it’s not that I don't like girls. I like listenin’ to their voices and smellin’ their perfume as they walk past. Sometimes it gets hard to resist wanting to touch their arms and necks or run my fingers through their hair, but I could never touch a girl if she didn't want me to. Shoot, I could never touch a girl even if she _did_ want me to. I don't know the first thing about havin' a girlfriend, and I figure I probably wouldn't make a very good boyfriend anyway.

Greaser girls are different than Soc girls. They wear short skirts that show off their long legs, and high heels that clack against the ground when they walk. They cuss and smoke a lot, do their hair up big and don't pay much attention to guys like me. They put on lots of makeup and have grabby hands like Dally's ex-girl Sylvia. Greaser girls like to drive fast and hate bein' tied down to just one guy. They love watchin’ fights and are always gosspin’ about one thing or another.

Soc girls, on the other hand, never cuss. They wear bright colored dresses and do their hair in neat ponytails or braids. They sit with their legs together and like holdin’ hands and wearing’ their boyfriends’ letter jackets. Soc girls drink root beer floats with the money they get from their allowance and love cheerleading like that Cherry Valance girl Ponyboy seems to like so much. They glare at us like the guys they date do, or at best just plain look through us like we don’t exist. And they're everywhere. It's tough to get away from them because no matter where you go, there's bound to be a Soc or two hangin' around.

I hate Socs. There ain't nothin’ I hate more in this world, to be honest. Sure, I hate my folks and school and the cough I got from smoking, but none of that even comes close.

I hate the way they think they're better than us when all that's different between us is money. I know plenty of guys that have nothin' and are smarter than any Soc around, like Darry or Pony. Bein' a greaser means the Socs think they can give us a hard time whenever they run out of things to waste their money on or get bored fighting each other. They never fight fair, either. They'll gang up on one or two of us and use pipes or heaters if they feel like it.

I thought I knew what rock bottom was before, but I was way off. I've never felt lower than I did the night they jumped me. I hadn't had a chance. Those Socs'd had been on me before their car had parked along the sidewalk, before I'd had time to count how many of them there were. It hadn't mattered how loud I screamed or how hard I had begged them to let me go. They didn't care. Socs never care. I was just somethin' to beat the tar out of for a while. And they'd laughed, loud and crazy-like. Especially that Bob kid, the one with the class rings that cut my face up so bad. He was the one that got to me first and knocked me square in the jaw. My dad's hit me there before, but his punches never hurt like that one did. I can still feel it if I move my jaw just right. I'd taken off at a run towards the other side of the street before two of them grabbed me and threw me to the ground, the others kicking me wherever they could while they held me down so I couldn't get away. 

Somewhere in the midst of things I heard someone pull a switchblade, but before they'd been able to use it a cop car had 'rounded the corner and they’d scattered faster than they'd jumped out of their Mustang to begin with.

But that’s the thing about the fuzz: they don't give a hoot about anyone who ain't a Soc. Sure, they'll break up a rumble every so often, or throw a greaser in the slammer for drinkin' too much, and they love to make a big deal of it when a one of us breaks into someone's house, but when a greaser gets jumped or cheated, they never seem to notice much. If they'd seen me laying there in the middle of the vacant lot bleeding to what I thought was my death, they sure as hell didn't let on. They just drove on down the street.

I remember the taste of blood and a wet, hot spot in my side that made my vision blur when I breathed. When I heard footsteps pounding on the sidewalk I thought the Socs'd come back to finish me off. I probably started bawling like a little baby but I don't like to think about it. Soda says the rest of the gang found me not too long after the Socs split, but the only thing that rings a bell is someone lifting me off the ground, holding me close. Warm arms, a voice I recognized, but not the tone. Fingers on my face, in my hair, under my jacket, squeezing tight.

"That was Dally,” Ponyboy'd said after I woke up in his and Soda’s room later that night. "He carried you back here and wouldn't let anyone else but Soda touch you or nothin'. Looked like he was about to have a heart attack or somethin', the way he was actin'. Man, Johnny, he was white as a sheet, and fuckin’ _pissed_."

Embarrassed as I was at how pathetic I’d proven to be once again, there was comfort in Dally bein' so worried about me. He'd always been tough as nails and didn't seem to care about anyone or anything as long as he could still get drunk or ride horses, and to know he gave a shit was a big deal. Far as I knew, Dally only got worked up over fist fights, poker, and girls. 

Turns out I was wrong.


End file.
